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Chapter Fourteen

Lock and Key

Franco was no stranger to incarceration.

He had spent many nights in a cell, for reasons too numerous to recall. Suspected of everything. Convicted of nothing. Having to find comfort on a stone floor or wooden bench was once second nature when the legitimacy of his enterprise was called into question, and this time was no different, though it was a long time ago since he had to endure this kind of treatment.

The cell looked like any other, the bars on the outside wall thick and imposing, with a wrought-iron door and slatted bars opposite looking out into the jailer’s office. The jailer himself was nothing out of the ordinary either. Gaunt in face, brash about his status and power, he had mocked Franco, repeatedly, kicking over his food at mealtimes, making crude sexual remarks about those in his employment. His ratlike features curled with glee every time, believing his prey was becoming increasingly agitated.

Franco did no such thing. The slurs he had heard before, and every weak-willed turnkey felt himself a god. That was nothing unique in the slightest.

But Alex Juniper worried him. Fiery, passionate, the man was clearly trouble. Dangerous, even. Considerably more so than his cellmate.

Ketan sat opposite on the floor, stretching his legs out, checking on his healing wound. The dressing remained tattered; rough inconsistent stitches doing their work to hold the flesh together. At least the surgeon was competent enough to pull the bullet out, though with considerable bruising and not a small amount of pain. They had barely spoken since being thrown in together, waiting for the other to begin and letting time slip away. Finally, a product of his ego, Ketan made his thoughts known.

‘Oh how far you’ve fallen,’ he mocked, rubbing his wound over and over. ‘You’re not used to being down here with us normal people. Getting them nice coat tails filthy. Damn shame.’

Franco rolled a stone between his fingers, skimming over and around, an anxious tick he would perform with cards though in this case had to make do. ‘Sitting in the dirt clapped in irons? That’s no one’s perception of normal, you fool.’

‘I would rather be in the dirt than have my head in the clouds looking down on everyone else.’

Franco limply tossed the stone, with little weight and force, hearing it crack against the cell wall, dangerously near Ketan’s head. He scowled in return.

‘Whatever did I say to give you that absurd notion?’ Franco grunted.

‘You did plenty.’

‘I have barely been here! I went to find you because your father was concerned about these people you are running with and I can see he was right to be! Your shenanigans with these folk have got me and mine arrested!’ Again another stone was taken and thrown, snapping once again on impact. ‘Arrested. Clean for years and you force this on me.’

‘Maybe you deserved it.’

Deserved? Was he out of his mind? How could Franco have deserved any of this? ‘What is wrong with you? What is this? Do you simply hate me?’

‘There’s plenty of reasons to put hate upon you – a long, long list.’

‘Or is it jealousy?’

Ketan’s nauseating, constant grin slipped slightly, giving a tell-tale sign.

‘Look at the hard truth there. You’re jealous. I made something of myself here, built things up and gained my reputation, and I didn’t need to turn over banks or shake down others to get it. That’s how it’s earned, not by waving iron in faces. There’s nothing down the barrel of a revolver but death and damnation. Thought you would have got that by now.’

‘Absurd.’

Their exchange was interrupted with the jailer striking his baton against the bars over and over.

‘Quiet, the pair of you! Just for that you don’t get to eat tonight. Maybe that’ll keep those traps shut.’

Ketan scowled, gesturing to the guard to come closer to the bars. ‘Hey, you know I’m going to dig my way out of here, right? I’ll do so while you’re asleep. I’ve got the tools hidden away. Snuck them in, don’t you know. You didn’t even search us properly, idiot.’

The jailer scanned the cell, though saw nothing but the bare extremities that they were subjected to. What passed for a bed – a length of heavy, pitted wood – didn’t seem to have anything stored beneath it. There was nothing in the corners, gaslight illuminating enough of the cell to ensure nothing was hidden.

‘What would that be? You sitting on a shovel or something, rat?’ he cockily replied, calling Ketan’s bluff.

‘Oh yeah, I got your shovel.’ Ketan frantically searched in his pockets, and after a moment, showed his discovery. From a clenched fist he raised his middle finger in retort. ‘Right here, pal.’

The jailer scrunched his face together in annoyance, striking the bars once more. It was foolish to make him angry, especially since the held the keys for the only way out.

‘No breakfast either, is it? I can do that. Test me, lad, let’s see how far you can get. I’ll get you stripped naked and throw a dog in with you if you keep this up. Ass.’

He plodded back to his desk just out of sight and continued with his monotonous paperwork.

Franco resumed their conversation, now with a hushed voice. He could withstand the threats, but having to be sentenced for crimes on an empty stomach? To him, that just wasn’t right. He tilted his head back against the outside wall, though this time his ears picked out the smallest of noises from the gloom.

‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Franco continued, keenly focusing on small taps against the stone behind him, each one forcing his smile wider. ‘You’re jealous because you’re here rotting in this dustbowl and I went off to see things new. You lacked whatever quality is needed to better yourself so I left you, literally in the dust. You may hate me for that but I apologize for nothing.’

‘Let’s say for argument’s sake –’

‘Oh my.’ It was Franco’s turn to be facetious. ‘Do I love arguments.’

‘– that you’re correct. So what?’

‘So you shouldn’t be so built up, all angry, stupid, and threatening. Damn, Ketan, your father is worried about you. See sense in this! You don’t have much in this life, in Her name, it passes by so quick that you have to make something of yourself. Properly. Respectfully.’

‘You’re a buffoon,’ Ketan dismissed, turning his head away.

‘And you would always call me that when I was right. And I’m right now.’

‘Keep convincing yourself of that. I’m just struggling to find a reason why you’re still here,’ he said, his words venomous. ‘Why are you keeping me company in this fleapit? What’s that grandfather of yours doing, Franc? A little late to rescue you, isn’t he? Surely he must be on his way to bail you out of another mess of your making. It’s just like the old days. You, here, with me, doing our thing. Yes, he’ll come rushing in to take you away to a better life in a matter of minutes. You lucky dog! Why whatever would you do without him saving your ass? Except for standing on your own damned feet of course!’

Franco lunged forward, blinded by his own rage. A cannonball of a hook almost knocked Ketan’s head clean from his shoulders, throwing him upon the cell floor. Franco launched three more punches before restraining himself, but it was one too many.

The cell guard barked for the pair to settle down from his desk, otherwise he would do things that they would sorely regret.

Ever so slowly, Ketan sat himself upright once more, spluttering a chuckle through a split lip.

‘There he is. Nice to see you still have it in you. I had worried that you had gone all soft.’ The words were preceded by a spat glob of blood. His fingers probed his numb jaw.

Franco’s first instinct was to apologize but as he stood – knuckles skimmed and bloodied – equally strong was the desire to finish the job. Fire still harboured in his muscles, still tense, still expectant of the next move. The apology was not forthcoming.

‘You don’t get to talk about him. Not now. Not ever. Are we clear?’

Fingers now moved to teeth, checking each in turn. Ketan licked the iron-tinged fluid from his fingers.

‘Yeah, we’re clear. Seems like that’s a sore spot for you. Guess things ain’t so perfect after all.’

‘You don’t want to know.’ Franco slumped back down, against the outer wall, catching deep mouthfuls of air.

‘He was a good man. A shade of angry at times, which would scare me to the bones, but he knew full well what he was doing. Refreshingly honest too.’

‘Did you forget what I just said?’ he asked, hoping that Ketan actually comprehended the demand this time.

‘Tanned my backside on more than one occasion if you remember.’

This conversation wasn’t going anywhere favourable. There was rarely a correct time to drag oneself through nostalgia, even in the company of someone who had known him since youth. Reminiscence was dangerous, fraught with scores of emotions that dulled the senses and buckled sensibilities. Incarcerated, all they seemed to have was time – the time until dawn and the old times that they had shared. Against his better judgement Franco indulged.

‘He never liked you being up to no good,’ Franco added. ‘Believed you were a bad influence on me. I can’t possibly guess where he got that from.’

‘It was the other way around from what I recall.’ Ketan’s memory being much more precise on the matter of who led whom astray. ‘Scrapping and thieving. How many times did you dare me, or any others who we hung around with, to grab something from a shop and run like the clappers? We followed your every word. I recall the pair of us hopping into the steelworks and making off with whatever we could carry to sell on a corner. Never did find a buyer for that sewing machine in the end. When my dad was sniffing around I had no choice but to toss it. Met its tragic end off a bridge if I remember. Shame, it was pretty too.’

This was met with silence and not a small measure of guilt.

‘Anyhoo. Your Pappy. What’s the old-timer up to these days? Is he part of your travelling entourage?’

Franco pressed his skull to the brickwork, listening to the taps that had begun anew. The mere mention of that name brought back a torrent of frustration that drink had been recently failing to suppress. He slunk his head on resting arms.

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Try me,’ Ketan suggested, now quite curious and sincere.

Old habits were rising once more. The better part of their time apart had been spent ignoring his past or, worse still, reshaping it with falsities when asked about it. Pappy had encouraged him to do better, to be better, but the seed still remained within him, once considered dormant or dead.

He had been no better than Ketan all those years back, worse in fact if honesty was worth indulging in. This was one of the facets that frustrated him the most. The slumped man with a crippled leg opposite wasn’t an old cohort. He was a damned reflection of what could have been. Every bad choice and thoughtless reaction could have resulted in matters becoming very different.

Almost out of obligation Franco regaled what happened to Pappy and did so with wet eyes.

* * *

‘Thank you,’ Pappy managed in a croak. A glass of water was set on the table beside him with a dull thud, a tinge of red riding its surface.

‘Let me know if you need it again.’

Franco re-seated himself on a simple stool at Pappy’s bedside. This attentive routine was getting the better of him. His eyes had started to become weary and sleep was sorely needed, but his own wellbeing was of little concern. Since Pappy’s deterioration the stock car where they slept had been modified to accommodate his needs. Windows were almost perpetually darkened for he slept often, sometimes as long as a day at a time, only being woken to eat. Beside him there was always something to eat and drink, replaced daily and the old food and drink tossed to prevent any further infection. In motion the carriage rocked, a motion fond enough to be soothing when Pappy’s pain manifested, such as was the case now.

‘What I need is to get out of this damned, accursed bed,’ Pappy whined, patting the mattress with his all too noticeably frail hands. They were hands that had lifted and lugged, fixed and fitted. They had taken to the back of Franco’s head and his backside upon hearing of his misdeeds plenty of times. Now though they were alarmingly brittle in their old age.

‘You need plenty of rest. Conserve your strength. I’m handling things fine. I’ve not caused a single delay –’

‘Last week, you were a good few hours behind on that cotton shipment,’ he nagged.

‘Rockslide. Like I explained, not my fault.’

‘A couple of months back you took that absurdly long route around Abel Pass rather than go through …’ he began, eyes rolling.

‘To avoid bandits that had set up there which, again, was not my fault.’

‘Do tell me, how is the new driver you hired coping?’

Franco cupped his hands together, squeezing.

‘Mister Rosso is doing just fine. It turns out he ran a C class back in its heyday so he’s had no problems. That is, unless you consider his rubbishing of some of our more creative attempts to get her up and running …’

‘Good to know we have someone sporting familiarity. I should let you off, I suppose. You’ve done far better than I thought you would. I had this damned crazy idea that you would stick around and make something of yourself. Now look at you. You’ve learned this train aplenty. I still wish I could teach you the rest but let’s be honest between us … I’m holding you back. I can tell. I can see it in those eyes of yours,’ he croaked.

‘No you’re not, Grandpa.’

With a wheeze his head fell back upon the sack pillow and he stared deeply at the wood-panelled ceiling. ‘You’ve never been a good liar. You can grow all the hair on your chest that you want, but that’s the one thing that’ll never change. Don’t lie to me. You owe me that much.’

Another bout of coughing erupted from the depths of his person. A hastily introduced handkerchief caught the bulk of what was ejected, though some dotted the sheet in specks of red. It was withdrawn and dropped into a wicker basket beside him with all the others.

‘Listen, Franco. I won’t be enduring this sickness for ever and truth be told I’ve already grown tired from it. I want you to do something for me. In fact, I need you to.’

‘Anything, you know that; you need only ask.’ Franco reached out and enclosed his grandfather’s hands with his own.

‘You won’t like it,’ came the reply.

It was true. He wouldn’t.

Unlike everywhere else, the region had plenty of places that could be considered the middle of nowhere. The Sand Sea itself was comprised mostly of nowhere, miles upon miles of nowhere in fact. This nowhere looked identical no matter the approach, surrounding towns and outposts, hubs and trading points with barren land fit for the wildlife and nothing more.

This specific nowhere had a sense of meaning to Pappy. The Condor Highlander line was a rail route built to shuttle tobacco leaf from successful plantations in the south. In his youth, these trips were spent smoking some of the finest cigars he had ever had the luck of acquiring, mostly as kickbacks from the plantation owners themselves to haul undeclared cargo on the side.

Crossing between ridges of mountains it overlooked the basin of the region, the vastness of the Sand Sea laid out before them like a blanket of saffron. Pappy had requested to venture this way one last time so Franco begrudgingly obliged.

Boots cut into the dirt, pushing deep into sand and stone. The ascent wasn’t particularly taxing, luckily wind-blasted paths were cut into the ridge side forming a natural path. What was a different story though was the cargo.

Hoisted over his shoulder, Franco carried his grandfather up the hillside, not once complaining or stopping. In fact he didn’t speak at all, concentrating on his breathing and mentally subduing the burning that ripped through his muscles. If he spoke he would think and if he thought, then the sheer absurdity of this farce would break him in twain like an axe to lumber.

His foot buckled a spell as he caught it against a protruding boulder, forcing him to regain his balance with an outstretched hand.

‘Watch it. I don’t fancy my brains dashed across the dirt because you’ve been getting careless.’

Franco allowed himself to speak, trudging onward. His palm was scratched and raw. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine.’

Pappy grunted in annoyance, spitting from his undignified place. This was how one carried a sack, or firewood, not a person. Despite this, the old man’s hearing still remained keen, or so he thought.

‘Dammit, boy, I told you not to cry.’

‘I’m not, it’s the sand,’ Franco contested.

‘Like hell it is. I can hear you sniffling from here. Liar. Pack it in.’

They passed the skeletons of trees, fractured rocks, and thorny bush that desperately clung to the inclines. As they made their way along the ridge side, the entire basin was laid out before them. Despite the abject desolation of the Sand Sea biting into the surrounding landscape, it still coaxed a degree of awe. At ground level all one could see was sand and rock. At this height the horizon itself laid the land before them on a grand plateau. An afternoon sky waned above them with the sun beginning its fall. A hand struck Franco’s back repeatedly.

‘Here will do just fine. Just here,’ Pappy demanded. ‘It’s perfect.’

Franco sorted through a canvas satchel, withdrawing a bottle of whisky and pouring a measure into their tin cups. The old man squinted his eyes to make out the label while this was done.

‘Cruden Black Blend. Well isn’t that all sorts of fancy. What did I do to deserve this? Am I dying or something?’

Franco’s hand juddered, just for second but enough to spill a little down his wrist. ‘Not funny,’ he stated, passing the cup over.

Down in the valley the locomotive was poised, straddling the rail tracks that followed the natural contours of the land, rising and falling as it dictated. Steel reflected the dusk as a monument to the pair’s labour, as did the four combine cars that accompanied it.

‘What a sight … Beautiful isn’t she? I always said she was, even the day when I first laid eyes on her as a youngster. Do you remember when I dragged you through that scrapheap to find her?’ the old man reminisced, fighting off sentimentality.

‘Of course I do. It was the biggest piece of crap I had ever seen. I thought you had gone senile for a moment. It was a shambolic ore hauler that even time hadn’t had the decency to kick to pieces. That’s a red flag right there. Look at her now though. She’s all manner of pretty.’ He laughed at the absurdity, a collective of bittersweet memories soon curtailed as reality rudely reintroduced itself.

‘I expected you to ignore me when I told you that you would be helping. Go back to hustling folks on the street maybe in an attempt to make your way. I’ve never been so glad to be wrong. I have no shame in saying it, but these last few years with you have been the best ones of my life.’ He paused to blink back the wetness that coated his eyes. ‘It made me feel hopeful again that life weren’t as cruel as those sands that threaten to swallow us.’

‘It’s been good for me too,’ Franco said, drastically swigging away to sedate himself. His heart was breaking, being here, talking like this. It was an agonizing pain, making him desperate to roll back the clock to a time when they were working on the train carefree.

Before the old coot was slipping away.

The sun hung heavy, finally letting itself take to the horizon and bleed its best into the cotton-white clouds, transforming them into hues of pinks and blues. The infinite sands blanketed the land before them, basins interrupted by numerous protruding mountain ranges that stretched out in all directions.

Tranquillity reigned. Not a bird took to the sky, not a viper protruded from its nest. For the longest time either of them could recall, there was nothing to distract them from this one, wonderful moment.

They each took a sip, neither appreciating the spirit’s flavour but instead marvelling at the landscape.

‘From up here you would never guess how hard everything is,’ Pappy reflected.

Franco said not a word but instead drank deeper this time.

‘Your father said that to me once. Or something like that – may or may not have been the exact words but that’s the gist at least. He had a penchant for absurdities at your age, poetic ones mostly about how the world was weaved together.’

There was a pause before Pappy continued. ‘Do you miss him?’

‘He was a fool who abandoned his son. What do you think?’ Franco snapped.

The mood soured, though this was expected given the topic of conversation. It was something they never spoke of and given the circumstances Pappy felt compelled to change that. If they weren’t to discuss it now, then when?

‘You’re speaking out of anger. He’d have forgiven you for that.’

‘I don’t care what he would have done. He’s not here. So what he may or may not have decided to do at this point of time is irrelevant.’ Franco huffed.

‘It was never that simple, not for him. It wasn’t an easy choice to make. He watched your mother struggle with the pregnancy – terribly ill she was, and what with us all having no money coming in … well, your father decided to do the right thing.’

‘The right thing would be to stay put. To look after his family. Not to be gallivanting in places that no sensible people would go!’ Franco realized that his voice was rising. This was a wound forever raw and prodding at it, especially now of all times, did little to diminish that. He focused on his grip around his cup, tightly wrapping his fingers around it with such force that he expected it to collapse in on itself. ‘What kind of man doesn’t stay?’

‘Sure, you say that now. I imagine I would be all fire like yourself in your position. The thing is, you’re young and unburdened, boy. Being a father changes a man’s prerogatives. With you on the way, there would be another mouth to feed and your father had no choice but to go off to the mines. Nobody else was hiring, you see? We owed money to people just to keep fed, people who you wouldn’t want to owe a kind remark let alone currency. They rattled your poor mother something fierce with threats. Your old man would fall through the door at times all beaten and blue. That’s no way of living. I know you don’t want to talk about it. You’ve never wanted to talk about it. That’s your personal business and I get that. But you don’t have to talk right now. You just have to listen.’

Pappy didn’t cry. Crying wasn’t in his nature. He had lived through times when crying wasn’t done, when emotion was a stranger to the working man, and all that mattered was words and actions.

But with that said, for a moment he could have mistaken his own son staring back at him instead of the slumped, depressed figure of his grandson. The youngster had inherited plenty from the man he never knew, from the shaggy hair to his fiery temperament, traits that were making this conversation exceedingly more difficult than intended. Franco had grown from a difficult tearaway to a sterling individual, forthright and strong. Pappy was proud and despite never saying it, secretly hoped that his actions communicated his feelings appropriately. No, Pappy was not one to cry.

But if he did, it would have been then.

‘Have you actually seen the mines, boy?’ His voice struggled. ‘Not heard of them, or been told stories, but actually seen them with your two own? It’s like walking into the abyss. First you take to a tin can that winches you deeper and deeper down to a place we were never supposed to go. The air down there is wrong. Daylight ain’t nothing more than a memory and you’re strolling through the guts of the land, graciously chipping away its innards. No wonder there’s so many accidents. No wonder they pay so much. Cave-ins, suffocation, all that mess. Only someone broken by desperation would willingly endure such danger.’

Franco’s teeth were bared, his shoulders rocking as he tried to control every shudder of sadness that set upon him.

Pappy nodded cordially, imparting what he knew in the hope that maybe it would bring him some closure.

‘Some people don’t remember bad news. When it hits, everything seems to blur. You could tell them a million things and by the end of it they couldn’t recall a one. I’m not one of those lucky people as fortune inflicted me with something of a sharper mind, but I wish that wasn’t the case. I was looking after your mother as she carried you. You were large in her belly. She used to sing to you as you were in there and tell you handsome stories of your father. The letters he sent back were read over and over to you, normally in this poky kitchen we had.

‘As soon as the letters stopped, we assumed there was a problem with the post. Things were getting difficult out that way, train hijackings and all. The papers even warned of such things. Your mother, bless her, she was saying that it wasn’t normal, that something had to be wrong. Worked herself into a right state she did.’

Pappy drank deeply, attempting to banish the fog that years of negligence had accumulated. He cleared his throat, or did so as well he could, with noisy splutters.

‘I got the paper first thing in the morning – the first thing I do in my routine. Didn’t even look at it. Never do. Disputes between gangs were making food drops late, so getting anything substantial for your mother was proving difficult. What I did manage to get my hands on, with no small amount of negotiating, was some cockatrice eggs. Some trapper was raising young ’uns but had plenty to spare. These things are three times bigger than what a normal chicken lays – mighty tasty too. So I make my way home and your mother is there sitting at that kitchen table, singing settlers’ songs. I go to make us breakfast and she decides to read you the newspaper seeing as your daddy’s letters are still stuck.’

Franco closed his eyes, envisioning the scenario. From the gentle morning light that bathed the woman with luminescence to the smells of the eggs gently frying in a cast-iron pan. It was a tranquillity that Franco had yearned for but never attained.

‘She takes the paper, and says to you, that we’ll read the news and find out what’s happening outside these walls. She spoke the large headline without a single care: “Seventeen die in mine catastrophe.”

‘She then goes all quiet, talking to herself before suddenly wailing. Bless her, did she cry. I was all confused of course, so I read the paper to see what’s put her in such a state. It turns out that the mine your father was at suffered an accident. That tin-can lift I told you about, that they winch you down in, broke free from its cabling and fell straight down with seventeen pour souls trapped inside. The names confirmed Ederik Monaire, your father, as one of the dead.’

Pappy kicked the stones at his feet weakly, squinting at the ebbing sun that moseyed across the sky on its own accord.

‘Never seen a woman so distraught. You hear tales of such things but it breaks a heart to witness. Your mother loved him dearly. When the time came for you to make an appearance, she was already drinking more than I was comfortable with – something that became a frequent point of argument. That never changed. Suffering a burden like that can break people. Even the strongest among us can have it creep on up. Make people commit to terrible decisions on the pretence that it’s for the best.’

Franco licked his lips. The alcohol was having trouble settling in his stomach, keen to escape the way from which it came. A few deep breaths subdued this – for the time being at least. ‘Why did she leave?’

‘Don’t know. She just left. There was a note that barely made sense, rambling about things, mad things, from what I recall. There was some crazed declaration about chasing the sun to find Ederik but who knows where her mind was at. The Sand Sea is a big place. If someone doesn’t want to be found, then they won’t be. You were just a babe in arms then and someone had to look after you, being that you were abandoned. That responsibility became mine and I looked after you as my own for evermore.’

Bitterness seeped in once more. Whilst it was easy to have compassion for the situation that his parents struggled with, the chain reaction of bad decisions that followed were far less acceptable.

‘You raised me.’ Franco swigged again, his mood as sour as his liquor. ‘Not them. You. I don’t see them here right now, reminiscing over how things transpired with big smiles.’

Something obstructed his throat. A long gestating rant that had been the backbone of bad behaviour and pity-seeking eruptions. The urge to launch his bottle into the sky was overwhelming.

‘It wasn’t what they intended, I’m sure.’

He cut Pappy off immediately.

‘Intended or not, this is the way it all went. Like you said, life is like a train on the rails, a destiny of sorts. I’m guessing that there are some who just jump from the cars without thinking of the landing. I don’t owe the folks a damn thing. Just you.’

With a sharp wheeze, Pappy took a spell to collect himself, giving Franco ample time to compose himself and lose the shakes.

‘Well I guess you know best on that front, lad.’

A flock of crows soared overhead, calling as if spooked by something unseen. Their obnoxious squawks abated as they took flight to the closest peak. Pappy kicked his boots in the dirt, displacing it before changing the subject to something more placid.

‘This idea of yours. This venture. Tell me about it again. What was the plan?’

‘It’s nothing really.’

‘You’re a man now. Speak like one.’

‘We provide entertainment,’ Franco stated. It was embarrassing confessing to the designs he had for when the old man had finally passed, crude given the circumstances. Originally it was something for the pair of them to participate in – until tragedy dictated otherwise.

‘Entertainment of what sort?’

‘It would be a delight on wheels. We would stuff the cars with tables, games, and all the booze folks could handle. The girls would entertain and we would make money on the tables like you wouldn’t believe. We would put on a show wherever we travelled.’

‘Are the games honest?’ he enquired.

‘Nothing but. The patrons get to win. There’s none of that fixing. Who would want to play at a table where the dealer has sticky fingers?’

‘These girls –’ he swallowed in interruption ‘– are they pretty?’

‘Oh, the prettiest. They would have kind faces to bring about respite for the poor bastards stuck down the mines or suck in the mills.’ Franco finally laughed; envisioning the entire thing like had done many times before.

‘Ah, now I like the sound of that.’

‘The bar would be filled with the finest rums and bourbons this far south of the trade line. It would be an oasis to the parched.’

‘Like this here stuff?’ Pappy tilted the frosted dark glass to his parched lips.

‘Better,’ Franco promised.

‘Got a name for all this yet?’

‘I’ve been kicking something around I guess …’

‘Being?’

Franco took a swig to build up nerve before setting the cup in the dirt at his boots. ‘The Gambler’s Den.’

To his surprise, the suggestion wasn’t immediately rubbished – unlike most others he had pitched in the past. No, Pappy weighed it with a considerable amount of thought as he sucked on a roll-up. The smoke got the better of his throat, starting a coughing fit. When it finally relented he spat the fire out beside him and quenched it with the bottle’s own. His eyes reddened, Pappy continued as if nothing had happened.

‘It’s not completely terrible.’ He relented. ‘It’s good, honest work. You should pursue it. We’ve got plenty saved to overhaul the cars and it’s not like you have to pay for a pine box for me. It’s your train now anyway. Stick with it and it’ll take you far. You’ve got a good head on you. It’ll grant you the one thing that most others lack.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Freedom, lad. Freedom. It’s the only thing that’s worth a damn – the only thing worth seeking out from the day you’re born until the day you’re buried. Money drips through the fingers when you try to hold it tightly. There’s bad sons of bitches out there who do just that. They may fool themselves and others that it can be done but it’ll trickle out slowly or drain in a rush. Money is fleeting. Freedom, however … If you can be free, you can be poor in wealth but rich in spirit.’ A bevy of deep, vicious coughs interrupted, eventually suppressed with more whisky. ‘And I wish that for you more than anything else.’

There were a million things that Franco wished to confess. This wasn’t how he wanted things to end but as Pappy once told him, you can’t deviate from your life when you’re set along the path. There was no use in complaining and certainly no use in getting upset. Things were just how things were, whether by chance or construct of the divine. With head held high, Franco said the only thing that came to mind that could encapsulate his feelings.

‘Thank you. I mean … thank you, Grandad. For everything.’

A lingering, compassionate smile painted the pair, ruined completely with Pappy’s wave of a hand.

‘Now go. Get out of here, you hear? Get on board that train and don’t you dare look back else you’ll feel my foot meet your backside.’

Instinctively Franco’s fingers reached for the bottle to take with him. Briefly hesitating he retrieved it from the dirt and placed it at Pappy’s feet leaving both it and his cup beside it. A singular pat fell on Pappy’s shoulder heavily on passing. Nothing else was spoken. Nothing needed to be. They were each aware of what this moment was and both decided not to change it with further sentiment.

The Eiferian 433 sat waiting for him in the stillness, an iron and steel sentry anticipating its new owner’s command. The moment he stepped foot into what had been the sleeping carriage, Franco realized that he was quite alone. It was a feeling he had not been accustomed to since Pappy became a quick surrogate for his absentee father. That may have been forced upon him in adolescence but it made him no less thankful.

Tears stained his cheeks as he cursed once, twice, and finally a third time until his throat gave. Sitting on Pappy’s bed, he allowed himself this moment before wiping his face and bringing about composure. The car was closed up as he moved out to the engine cab, greeted by the sight of Rosso who folded up a newspaper.

‘Where to now, boss?’

‘Anywhere, Mister Rosso. Absolutely anywhere but here.’

‘Forgive me but does anywhere have a location in particular?’

A thunderbolt of inspiration struck. ‘Yes, actually. Enlighten me: where would have a good yard for outfitting this here train with some flair?’

‘You’ll be wanting Packers out this way. I’ve seen them overhaul plenty and never an ill word against them. It’ll be about a day’s travel. Are you looking to give this old girl a new lick of paint?’

‘That and a new name.’

Rosso released the brakes and set the throttle open. The train complied and heaved forward.

The air was already turning cool. The night would be closing in soon.

The next few hours would be spent trying to outrun it.

* * *

Slurping from a bottle as the sun slowly sank on the horizon, Pappy watched the train depart. The sight comforted him. A lasting smile indented itself, curling his jowls and emanating warmth. He had done well, he told himself, and the boy would do him proud. The cigarette breathed its last wisp of smoke into the crisp evening air. It met its final fate, crushed beneath the sole of a work boot.

‘Ah. So beautiful,’ Pappy declared.

And the train made its way off and over the horizon.

* * *

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ketan confessed, not knowing too well where to put his attention.

‘Yeah, well, me too.’ Franco gave consideration once again to the rapping on the stone outside. ‘It wasn’t the nicest of times. It’s also a good reminder that you should appreciate your father being around while he still is, despite being a pain in your backside. He’s trying to do you good. You know that, don’t you?’’

‘You would have to be a fool not to, obviously.’

‘Then stop this. All you’re doing is rushing your way to the bone pile. Move somewhere away from the trouble and be better.’

Ketan sighed, seemingly giving this consideration.

Someone rapped on the jail door, catching their attention. The jailer heaved himself up with old bones, grumbling at the inconvenience and the lateness of the hour. While out of sight, Franco picked up fragments of the conversation, a female voice, wet with promises of a good time. Payment from his colleagues. All things that caused the front door to slam shut. Silence descended as he indulged in male sensibilities and shirked responsibilities.

Ketan snorted. ‘Do you hear that? It’s all right for some, isn’t it.’

Franco picked himself up and patted himself down, brushing away deposits of dust from his jacket. ‘Anyway, let’s say, hypothetically, you had an out. Would you take it?’

‘You’re dealing with the impossible now.’

‘Answer the question. If you had a chance to go legitimate. Honest work. Would you make a go of it?’

Ketan groaned wearily. It was, admittedly, something that had passed his mind but the more he contemplated, the more hopeless the situation seemed. ‘Guys like me don’t have those kinds of breaks, Franco. We use all our chances quickly; it’s why we die so quick.’

‘That’s just crazy talk.’

‘Is it? If you don’t get out then you get put down. Six feet down if you get my meaning. We are born in the gutter and die in it just the same. We both know it’s true.’

They did. It was.

‘When it happens,’ Ketan continued. ‘Who will cry for me, anyways? Who gets to mourn? We ain’t got nothing of worth in this life but family, Franco, and back then I considered you mine.’

‘You still have your father.’

‘Just don’t, all right …’

Franco nodded in understanding, moving the conversation on to a new subject. ‘How’s the leg?’

‘Like it’s been shot,’ he delivered with a glaze of fading patronization. ‘But better. Thanks.’

Franco leant back in his cell. He heard the murmurs and chatter outside, then the continuation of a code relayed by the tapping of iron guttering. ‘Think it can stand walking a fair distance?’

‘It has been so far for what good it’s done us.’

‘What about some running?’

Ketan tilted his head in question.

The outer wall erupted in debris, exploding inward and peppering the pair with rubble. Dust plumes dragged across the floor, causing Ketan to splutter and his eyes to weep. From the hole, waving the dust aside, Kitty rested a leg on shattered brickwork, proud of her handiwork. Behind, Corinne and two other showgirls in tow pulled the rubble aside for the getaway.

Kitty saluted her boss, nodding quite happily to herself. ‘Hey, clear something for me,’ she called. ‘We sprung the old man from this here cell, dangers and all, with no regard for our very own lives. What would that be making us?’

‘The hands of providence I’m guessing,’ Corinne stated, shooing the last dust haze with a hand.

‘Mmm,’ Kitty purred. ‘Ain’t that just the truth.’

Franco strode out to his freedom, kicking debris away as he found it. Alarms were yet to sound. They all had time yet to organize their getaway.

‘Where are the others?’

‘Jacques and Wyld are tying up loose ends. Gone to fetch Misu while they’re at it.’ Corinne handed Franco a revolver, of which he checked the spin of the cylinder and the accuracy of the sight before slipping it on his hip in endorsement.

‘Does that meet your approval?’ Kitty queried, watching her boss’s unmoved reaction.

Franco finally smiled, and cracked his fingers. ‘Absolutely. I’m starting to find Windberg a mite unsettling for fine, honest folks such as ourselves.’

‘That is pleasant to hear.’ Corinne produced a blunderbuss pistol, holstering the bag back onto her shoulder, the pack teeming with ammo. Franco assessed the situation. They were fugitives, and the lives of the showgirls would be unliveable as soon as the alarms sounded. They had risked their futures, their lives, all for him. If they were caught, they faced jail time at best, the noose at worst.

‘I’m sorry,’ Franco apologized, far meeker than any had seen him before. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did. You’re right, we are a family of sorts and –’

Kitty interrupted. She felt the weight of a revolver far too unsightly and unbalanced in her small hands, instead resorting to a crossbow pistol that she had used to kill predators back on the farm.

‘Can we save your sappy speech until after we’ve escaped? I can’t help feeling it would be for the best.’

‘And you accused me of hiring you just because of your prettiness. Perish the thought,’ Franco agreed, but before they moved, Corinne spied past the debris to the figure emerging from the dust plumes.

‘What about him?’

* * *

Indeed, what about Ketan? He staggered to the makeshift exit, eyeing up the girls in turn, who clearly watched with caution. With a limp he stepped over the first line of shattered bricks, securing his footing, looking at what Franco had made for himself. These individuals were willing to risk so much to rescue him, a family who would rather suffer together than let one of their own rot away to bones. Who would do that for him? Wilheim’s men would give him up in seconds if it would line their pockets. Only his father would do something so selfless, the doting fool. A doting fool his father may be, but very much his doting fool despite their regular disagreements.

‘Come with us,’ Franco said in unfathomable generosity. He owed this man nothing, but for all his faults, redemption seemed to be a possibility. Besides, promises were made. ‘Consider this to be your out. I can find you a job on the Den until you want to go your own way. No strings attached. It’ll keep you out of trouble, in a sense. Honest work, decent pay. I can set you up for a spell and when you’ve had enough of the legitimate life, you can go on your merry way. What do you say?’

‘I say –’ Ketan clambered over the debris ‘– that the noise your girls here have made will have the sheriff’s men on us very soon, so we should be running right about now.’

The group had broken into a sprint, sliding around each building side and peering around every corner for any sign of further trouble. Open spaces were passed quickly, small collections of morning traders used as camouflage. All seemed to be going so well, weaving through every street in a direct route back to Windberg central.

And then came the alarm.

* * *

The shrill call of a hand-powered klaxon blared across the city, soon joined by others as soon as its presence was acknowledged. The constabulary scrambled through street and alley, frantically hunting the escapees and their cohorts, whose movements were unpredictable and only detectable by hearing their shouts or catching sight of them.

Sheriff Juniper sprung from his desk at the first sound of klaxons. The paperwork would have to wait.

‘Sir!’ A captain burst inside, flushed and in a panic. ‘There’s a jailbreak happening!’

Juniper looked out over the city from his window and focused on a dreaded sight. Arches of grey steam were pouring from the split roof sheltering Platform 4 at Central Station. Its origin was obvious.

‘Damn you, Franco,’ he cursed, pulling on his holster and loading himself with a tin of bullets. His orders were short and precise. ‘Get as many men as you can to the station at once! I want him back in chains or there will be hell to pay! And get me my horse!’

* * *

Franco gestured everyone to lower themselves as he glanced quickly into the one of the main streets. The public buzzed with concern, watching Bluecoats scramble with speed, some uncomfortably close.

At the end of the line of people, Ketan lay flat against the brickwork, waiting for the gesture to move again, but before it was given a penetrating burst of a whistle from behind forced him to turn.

One of the constables had found them, blowing repeatedly into his whistle, a tone acknowledged by others all around them that began to converge. Before the silver instrument slipped from his lips, and the instruction to stop was given, Ketan was already upon him. He punched, pulled the constable by the hip, and forced him into the wall. When done, he reached for the constable’s weapon and put two shots into his back.

From the sound of gunfire, the adjacent people rippled away in alarm, calling for help from those listening. Ketan retained the weapon as the body slumped before them, each from the Gambler’s Den staring in astonishment. It wasn’t the first time he had put bullets into someone on the side of the law, and he treated the impact of his action like any other: with little concern.

‘Go!’ he called.

They did. Running now into full view, the constabulary began their chase, following them down every alley, every crevice, yard, and open space, cracks of gunpowder ejecting into the sky. Brickwork chipped and splintered as Franco attempted to maintain covering fire while they progressed, though Ketan kept back just enough to maintain space, yelling curses as he did so. As the law attempted to progress, his caplock revolver hammer fell back with a dead click, its chambers now bare. Another yank of the trigger. Another click of nothing.

‘I’m empty!’ Ketan called back. Franco skidded to his side, slapping a spare firearm into his palm. The call had encouraged the Bluecoats to advance on them, snaps of gunfire now filling the air. Franco ducked from an all too close sting across his ear.

They were just two streets from Windberg Central Station, some two hundred yards to their escape.

‘Get your girls to the station; you ain’t got far now. I’ll hold them off. Keep your head down, stay low, and I’ll do the rest. Pass me the noisemaker there.’

Franco called for Corinne to toss over her blunderbuss, which she did. He cocked back the hammer and signalled them to run and run they did.

The next two minutes were taken up with a frantic race through open streets to the wide-open courtyard where time seemed to fragment, slowing itself with every shot that buzzed between them. Ketan had emerged firing, every shot precise and hitting its mark. The cries fell silent. Bluecoats dotted the street either dead or dying. The group looked for cover, with Ketan struggling to keep pace with his leg injury.

‘I’m out!’ he called once more, prompting a small pouch of cartridges to be tossed his way. No sooner had he pulled them open, than a lucky shot skimmed his cheek, marking its trail with a dash of red.